In case you haven’t noticed yet, I’m a bit of an anglophile. I like the language a lot, that’s one reason why I’m trying to actually get a degree which states that I’m officially liking the language. In the course of that effort, I had to complete a course a few semesters back called PPOCS(Practical Phonetics and Oral Communication Skills), a not-so-witty acronym for “Practical Phonetics and Oral Communication Skills”. It’s a big name for a big thing: Learning how to properly pronounce all those concatenations of letters and being able to fool any native speaker into believing you’re one of them. That of course will never be possible, but there are means to come close. Now, I don’t want to brag, but I didn’t have a poblem with this course. In the beginning, after listening to my pronunciation for the first time, I thought they had replaced the tape with a recording of Kofi Annan’s reading of a stupid tongue twister. But, with a bit of help from the tutors and some practice, I succeeded to such a degree, that I convinced the people responsible to give me an A. Well done me.

Now, let’s get to the point. Getting that A didn’t stop me from practicing my pronunciation. Imagine a person walking down the street, engaged in a heated dispute with himself, sporting the most posh of all British accents. That’s me. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking to myself, I’m swearing in the most refined way, I’m fighting out disputes in BBC English. With myself. Hence the title. Mr. Soliloquy. Get it? Argh, another post gone awry.